Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dozens of women sat in clusters, their looms clacking rhythmically. Young women laughed while untangling yarn, sharing secrets. Small children slept beside peat fires. In the corner, two grandmothers argued loudly over an incomprehensible weaving pattern.
"I am telling ye, Elspeth, the green thread goes under the blue!" one grandmother barked, waving a wooden shuttle in the air.
"And I am telling ye that yer eyes are failing," Elspeth shot back, snatching the thread away. "Ye are weaving a pattern that looks like a bruised cabbage."
Claire found herself smiling almost immediately. The sound of their bickering was surprisingly comforting. It felt…like home.
This feels like home, she realized, letting out a quiet breath. It is chaotic and loud, but it is entirely real.
Mrs. Campbell marched across the room with a wooden tray balanced on her hip. She stopped directly in front of Claire and Violet, shoving a large piece of warm, honey-soaked sweet bread into Claire’s hands.
"Eat that and sit before ye fall over from starvation, Lady Claire. Ye look as though a stiff wind might carry ye away to the sea."
"I assure ye, Mrs. Campbell, I am perfectly well," Claire protested weakly, though the sweet aroma of the bread made her mouth water.
"Eat," she repeated. "And ye too, Lady Violet. I willnae have the MacSween Laird marching down here claiming we starved his sister."
"I am terrified to refuse ye," Violet said, accepting a piece of bread with a gracious smile.
Mrs. Campbell nodded in satisfaction and bustled away toward the arguing grandmothers.
Claire sat on a low bench by the hearth, sipping her tea while Violet watched her carefully. Violet, sitting opposite on a stool, skillfully untangled dark blue thread. Claire knew her cousin would eventually corner her, as Violet could see through every polite mask she wore in London.
"Ye look happy," Violet observed casually.
Claire nearly choked on her hot tea. She coughed into her linen napkin, her eyes watering as she hastily set the cup down on the bench beside her.
"I daenae," Claire rasped, her cheeks flushing.
"Aye, ye do," Violet insisted. She did not even look up from her thread. "Ye have a very specific glow about ye this morning. It is quite sickening, truly."
"I am merely content," Claire defended herself, smoothing the skirts of her borrowed woolen gown.
"And I have every reason to be. I received a letter from me father yesterday.
Thankfully, he seems to have accepted me Highland fate.
He believes the false betrothal is real, and he has abandoned his plans to marry me off to Lord Westerly.
I am finally free of that terrible old man. "
"A tremendous relief, I am sure," Violet agreed politely. "But relief doesnae make a woman blush every time she looks at a certain dark-haired Laird across the breakfast table."
"I daenae blush," Claire lied horribly.
But her mind betrayed her instantly. Unbidden, the memory of the previous day crashed over her. She felt the heavy, unyielding warmth of Finn's chest against her back. She felt the iron grip of his arm caging her against his thighs on the saddle.
Because every day I wake wanting to do things to ye I shouldnae.
His rough, gravelly voice echoed in her ears, sending a wicked, molten heat straight down her spine. The primal hunger in his confession had shattered her completely. He wants me. Her pulse was stumbling in her throat, yet she couldn't decide if that was a salvation or a death sentence.
Was this a genuine shift in his heart, or was he merely fighting the inconvenience of a woman who had disrupted his iron-clad control?
Violet leaned slightly closer, her blue eyes narrowing with predatory focus.
"Is there something ye arenae telling me?" Violet asked softly.
Heat rushed straight into Claire's cheeks, turning her skin a brilliant shade of crimson. She tried to look away, but Violet's gaze was absolute.
Violet’s eyes widened triumphantly. She dropped her thread into her lap. "Oh, God."
"There is nothing," Claire whispered frantically, glancing around the room to ensure no one was listening.
"Claire Abbot," Violet gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "He kissed ye. Did he kiss ye?"
"Keep yer voice down!"
"He did!" Violet looked delighted. "The Devil of the North actually possesses a beating heart. I am astonished."
Before Claire could invent another desperate denial, a sudden commotion erupted across the room.
"If ye call me weaving a cabbage one more time, I will wrap this yarn around yer neck!" the first grandmother shouted.
The older woman beside her muttered something in rapid Gaelic. The weavers burst into laughter, echoing off the stone rafters. This distraction drew attention away from the two highborn cousins sitting by the fire.
"To be fair," Violet murmured quietly, picking up her thread once more. "Beatrice said the exact same things before Leo ruined her completely. She insisted it was just a political arrangement, right up until they were inseparable."
Claire snorted softly despite herself. "Finn isnae Leo, Vi. He is consumed by his duty. He told me himself that it was a mistake. He regrets it."
"Men always say it is a mistake when they realize they are losing control," Violet dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. She tilted her head, her sharp gaze dropping to Claire’s hands resting in her lap. "Is that nae Bea's ring ye’re wearing? The one from the bridal ritual at the loch?"
Claire looked down at the ancient, silver band resting on her right hand. She twisted it slowly around her finger.
"Aye," Claire admitted. "I found it in the heather that night."
"Is it burdening yer finger then?" Violet asked, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Are ye feeling the pressure of destiny pressing down upon ye?"
"It is just a ring, Violet. It doesnae burden me at all," Claire said, trying to sound as rational as possible. "Stop this foolishness. I am just relieved. I am nae marrying that horrible old man in London. That is the only reason I am smiling."
"If ye say so," Violet hummed, though she clearly did not believe a single word.
Claire looked around, taking in the golden light, the warmth radiating from the hearths, the women’s shared laughter, and the deep, profound sense of community. It was a harsh life in these mountains, but it was incredibly rich.
She touched the silver ring on her finger.
I never thought I would find a place where I truly fit, she thought quietly. I spent me entire life molding meself to please London society. Yet here, surrounded by mud and wild winds, I feel myself.
I am finding myself, but I am not certain if this version of me is a woman who can survive the man who keeps me here.
"Perhaps someday we will find our own happiness," Claire whispered softly, looking back at her cousin. A small, teasing smile appeared on her lips. "As our Leo did with Bea."
Violet smiled back, a genuine, warm expression that softened her sharp features. "I certainly hope so, Claire."
The heavy oak door of the weaving room suddenly creaked open.
The rhythmic clacking of the looms slowed instantly. The laughter tapered off into respectful murmurs as Finn MacRae stepped into the room.
He looked immense, with a doorway barely accommodating his broad shoulders. His dark leather doublet, sword on his hip, and black hair pushed back emphasized his fierce appearance. Sunlight highlighted the scar on his cheekbone, emphasizing his dangerous warlord look.
Douglas walked half a step behind him, carrying a large ledger book.
"Mrs. Campbell," Finn’s deep voice rolled through the room, commanding absolute attention. "I need the inventory for the southern grain store. Douglas says the numbers are short."
"They are nae short, me Laird, Douglas simply cannae count past ten," Mrs. Campbell retorted, wiping her hands on her apron as she marched toward them.
The women in the room chuckled softly. Finn did not smile, but the tension in his broad shoulders eased slightly at the housekeeper's reprimand.
Claire froze on her bench, her teacup suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in her hands.
Look away, she ordered herself fiercely. Daenae look at him.
But it was impossible. Finn’s green eyes swept across the room while Mrs. Campbell scolded Douglas. His gaze drifted past the looms, past the sleeping children, until it landed squarely on the corner by the hearth.
The moment their eyes met, the rest of the busy, noisy room seemed to completely vanish.
Claire’s breath hitched. The physical reaction was immediate and violently intense. The memory of his mouth brushing against her ear on the horse ride came rushing back, sending a heavy, sweet ache pooling low in her stomach.
Finn went perfectly still. His jaw locked tightly. He stared at her, his emerald eyes turning a shade darker, completely dilated. He did not look away. He looked at her mouth, then at the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat, before his gaze dragged slowly back up to her eyes.
"Me Laird?" Douglas prompted, waving the ledger book slightly.
Finn blinked, his chest expanding with a sharp intake of breath. He tore his gaze away from Claire, forcing his attention back to the housekeeper.
"See that the inventory is updated," Finn commanded roughly, his voice noticeably thicker than it had been a moment ago. He turned on his heel without another word, his dark plaid snapping around his knees as he strode quickly out the door.
Douglas offered a bewildered shrug to the room before hurrying after his Laird.
The heavy oak door shut with a loud, resounding thud.
The women slowly returned to their work, the clacking of the looms resuming their steady rhythm.
Claire sat frozen on her bench, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Her skin was flushed, and her hands were trembling so badly she had to set her teacup down on the floor to avoid spilling it.
Violet took a very slow, very deliberate sip of her tea. She set her cup down on her lap and looked at Claire with an expression of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"Beneficial," Violet said softly, repeating Claire's excuse from the previous night. "A purely beneficial, political arrangement."
"Violet, please," Claire whispered, pressing a cool hand to her burning cheek.
"I rest me case," Violet declared, picking up her dark thread once more with a highly satisfied smirk. "The man looked ready to throw ye over his shoulder and carry ye up the stairs. If that is what ye call a mistake, Claire Abbot, then I highly suggest ye make a few more of them."